


If Ye Love Me

by RembrandtsWife



Category: Velvet Goldmine
Genre: Gen, M/M, Religious Imagery & Symbolism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-25
Updated: 2012-09-25
Packaged: 2017-11-15 01:23:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/521602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RembrandtsWife/pseuds/RembrandtsWife
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Early morning talk between a former Anglican choirboy and a former Baptist.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If Ye Love Me

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written and posted to the 'Net in September 2000.

Brian woke alone. After a second of muscle-tensing panic, he relaxed, remembering. A late recording session, followed by a party, followed by coming home and having sex with Curt. Judging by the light that angled in between the drawn curtains, it was mid-afternoon. Curt had no doubt awakened, seen that Brian was still in dreamland, and gone roaming about the house, as he often did.

Brian crawled out of bed, pulled on a robe, and stumbled to the bathroom. His bladder felt like it was about to burst, and pissing was an unspeakably sweet relief. He thought about simply going back to bed until he had to get up for the evening session, but decided not to. He wanted to spend a little time with Curt. Funny how Curt seemed to like sleeping with him, having someone else in the bed, but once he awakened, he was unable to loll about between the sheets like Brian. He had to get up, fix a pot of coffee--preferably so strong that it smelled and, no doubt, tasted like tar--and do something.

Brian followed the smell of coffee through the house and found Curt in the study, looking at records.

"So how long have you been up?"

Curt turned to look at him and smiled. "Hey." As always, that oddly friendly, oddly shy grin, half-veiled by recently bleached hair, went straight through Brian's heart. Curt was sprawled on the floor in front of the record cabinet, stark naked, a mug of coffee near to hand. That was another of Curt's quirks--his ability to walk about stark naked without the least discomfiture. When they were on holiday together, Brian had had to remind him more than once to put some clothes on before going outside. His lean, fair nakedness was something of a shock against the dark colors, the antique hues of the overdecorated London house.

"'Bout an hour. You were snoring." Curt slurped coffee. "I needed my fix." He lifted the mug to make clear he meant caffeine and not anything stronger.

Brian came and sat down by his lover, rubbing his nose with one finger and wondering if he wanted tea and if there was anyone in the house who could make him some. He looked curiously at the stack of albums Curt had pulled out.

"You've got a good collection, man. Not all the same stuff." Curt shook his head. "A musician gets boring if he only listens to his own kind of stuff over and over."

"Right." Brian shuffled the albums with his hand, spreading them out like a deck of cards. _Stimmung_ by Karlheinz Stockhausen. _The Planets_ and other music by Holst. _Sergeant Pepper_. An album of Balinese gamelan music and another of classical Indian ragas. And something he hadn't seen in years: _Music from Birmingham Cathedral_.

Curt reached over and tapped that one. "This one kinda sticks out, though. You don't have any other church music like this."

Brian smiled crookedly, running his hands through his already tormented hair. "You've uncovered my dirty little secret, luv." He gave Curt a sly look. "I used to be a choirboy."

He was not surprised that Curt burst out laughing. "No, really? I love it. Brian Slade, former choirboy." Curt drew up his knees and wrapped his arms around his legs, still chuckling. "Tell me, what was it like?"

"It was bloody hard work, that's what it was like." Brian leaned back on the palms of his hands, stretching out his legs. "Rehearsals every day on top of all my other studies. Singing mattins and evensong for the rest of the ungrateful little buggers at the Cathedral school--it wasn't like any of us really wanted to be in chapel every day. And Sundays, too. Mattins three Sundays a month, and Mattins followed by the Litany followed by Communion once a month." Brian lay back and stared up at the ceiling. "I hated it, but I was good at it."

"Must've been good musical training, though. Lot more than I ever had. Plus, I dunno, you had some kinda religious background...." Curt's voice trailed off.

Brian sat up and spoke more coldly than he meant to. "You want to know what religion is? It's a show. A performance, just as much as Maxwell Demon and feathers and sequins. All our cassocks and surplices and the little white ruffs round our necks, processing in and out--it's a show. It makes respectable people feel good. That's all."

Curt got up and wandered away, over to the window. It was definitely late afternoon, and sunny outside; Curt became a pale silhouette against the semi-sheer curtains. Brian watched him light a cigarette, regretting his harsh words, but not knowing how to apologise. He had meant what he said, after all.

"The first time I kissed you." Curt's voice had dropped into his chest. "In front of all those people, at that 'press conference'. That was a show, for sure--but I meant it. Didn't you?" He turned and looked at Brian. His face was expressionless.

"Yes."

"So maybe having it be a performance and having it mean something aren't, you know, mutually exclusive, after all."

After a moment, Brian got up off the floor, went to Curt, and put his arms around the other man from behind, dropping his head onto Curt's shoulder. "What about you?" he said, after a moment. "Did you go to church when you were a boy?"

"Nah." Curt's hand came to rest on Brian's arm. "The only thing I learned about religion was from my grandmother, Grannie Elsie. Rocking on the porch and singing under her breath, always singing." He sang in a light, husky voice quite unlike his usual on-stage delivery:

"I went to the garden alone,  
When the dew was still on the roses,  
And the joy we share as we tarry there  
No other eye discloses.

"And he walks with me  
And he talks with me,  
And he tells me I am his own--"

He broke off, moved out of the circle of Brian's arms, puffing on his cigarette. "She used to tell me Jesus loved me. I guess that meant something to Grannie. But if I complained about anything, my mother'd just say, 'Nobody loves you and your hands are cold? Well, Jesus loves you and you can sit on your hands'."

Brian frowned. "That doesn't make any sense."

Curt snorted. "It doesn't have to make sense when it comes with a backhand across the mouth."

Brian turned Curt around, hands on his shoulders, and brushed his thumb very lightly across the other man's lips. Curt lowered his eyes.

"Jesus may've loved me, but he didn't stop it from happening," Curt said, almost too softly to be heard.

Brian kissed Curt's forehead, nuzzled the fragile yellow hair. "Religion doesn't stop people from doing bad things. Sometimes it even makes them do bad things, like the Crusades, or the Inquisition...." He sighed. "But people seem to want a good show, nevertheless."

He left Curt standing by the window and went to pick up the Birmingham Cathedral album off the floor. The album cover showed the choir in procession, sweeping down the center aisle of the church in two straight lines; if he squinted, he could just make out which one was himself. He slipped the album out of its jacket and put it on the turntable, turned up the volume, and moved the needle to his favorite track.

"If ye love me, keep my commandments, and I will pray the Father, and he will give you another Comforter, that he may abide with you for ever: ev'n the Spirit of truth, ev'n the Spirit of truth."


End file.
